


Selected Scenes from Eerie after Nightfall

by Deifire



Series: After Nightfall [1]
Category: Eerie Indiana
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-19 08:36:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7353736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deifire/pseuds/Deifire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marshall and Dash go to a club. Weirdness ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place about four years post-series.

“Okay, Mars, now look up.”

Marshall fixed his gaze to the ceiling and tried to remember the fact that he _mostly_ trusted the person currently wielding a semi-sharp object near his right eyeball.

He forced himself to remain still as Tod McNulty drew a coal black line across his lower eyelid. He nearly succeeded, until the pencil brushed against his lashes just slightly as Tod moved it away. It tickled, and without thinking, Marshall reached up and swiped against his eye with the back of his hand.

Tod leaned back and sighed. “Again?”

There was a snort of laughter from the other side of the room Marshall tried hard to ignore.

“Maybe we should forget the eyeliner,” said Simon. He handed Marshall a damp cloth and held up a hand mirror so he could see the black streak that now ran across the right side of his face.

“Maybe you’re right,” said Tod.

“Hey, I voted ‘forget the eyeliner’ before the eyeliner even came out, remember?” Marshall said, wiping at his face.

“It was worth a shot,” said Simon.

“Says the guy who doesn’t have to worry about getting stabbed in the eye,” said Marshall. At the age of thirteen, Simon still looked way too young to get into any club, even with a fake ID like the one Marshall had identifying him as Howard Phillips from Indianapolis, age 22 and therefore legally allowed to drink.

“Mars, I do this all the time, and I’ve never stabbed myself or anybody else in the eye,” said Tod. “Well, not more than once or twice,” he amended.

Again, a snort of laughter from the other side of the room Marshall pretended not hear.

“We’re your fashion consultants. You’re supposed to let us consult,” said Simon.

“This wasn’t even my idea,” said Marshall. It was Simon who insisted on calling Tod over for an emergency intervention after Dash had taken one look at Marshall’s khakis and striped shirt and declared he wasn’t going anywhere with him dressed like that.

“But you said it was okay,” said Simon.

“That’s because it seemed like a less stupid idea twenty minutes ago,” Marshall countered.

Simon was going through the bag of accessories Tod had brought with him. He found and held up a silver-spiked dog collar.

Marshall shuddered. “No, Simon.”

Looking disappointed, Simon put the collar back and came up with a skull-and-crossbones earring.

“I also have that in clip-on,” Tod noted.

“Again, no,” Marshall said. He had so far resisted accessorizing, save for the key he always wore and one leather wrist cuff Simon had won at the Unkind Ones’ National Corndog Day charity auction last summer, the latter only because it was stamped with a ward meant to protect against nastier sorts of dark magic.

“Well, are we done?” Tod asked Simon.

Simon stood back and studied Marshall. “You sure it's no on the skull?”

Marshall nodded. “Very sure.”

“Then we’re done. What do you think?” He guided Marshall over to the full length mirror on his closet door.

Marshall studied his reflection. He was wearing the black jeans and black Sky Monster sneakers he usually reserved for covert nighttime operations. 

The shirt was one of many Tod had brought over for him to try on. It was black silk and clung in places Marshall wasn’t used to, but at least it wasn’t mesh or see-through or bearing the logo of a band Marshall had either never heard of or objected to on the grounds of general good taste. Over it, he had on Tod’s second favorite leather jacket, which had just enough pockets to the fit the holy water, tape recorder, salt, pen, small notebook, miniature flashlight, and pocket book of banishing rituals Marshall usually carried with him.

The result of letting Simon do his hair was a style somewhere between “woke up and couldn’t find a comb” and “close encounter with Old Bob” that somehow managed to look not bad despite the general calculated messiness.

“It’s…interesting,” Marshall allowed.

Simon spun him around to face the other side of the room. “What do _you_ think?” he asked Dash.

Dash stood in the corner, arms folded, with a barely concealed smirk on his face. His eyes traveled up and down the length of Marshall’s body twice before he finally shrugged and made a non-committal “Mmm” noise.

Simon beamed.

Marshall rolled his eyes.

“We going or not?” Dash asked.

“We’re going,” Marshall said. He turned back toward Simon and Tod. “See you guys tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” said Simon. He was still smiling, but his voice held just the slightest hint of a waver. Marshall sighed inwardly. The problem with being best friends with someone so much younger was that the list of things you couldn’t do together only seemed to get longer the closer you got to adulthood.

“Hey, I’ve still got about an hour before my shift at Eerie Video starts,” Tod said. “Want a quick makeover, Simon? You can pick any accessories you want.”

Simon brightened. “That would be very cool!”

Marshall handed him the camera from the top of his dresser before heading out the door. “Take pictures. I want to see the evidence of this when I get back.”


	2. Selected Scene: Hour Zero

They didn’t quite make it all the way inside the club together.

Marshall had spent the time in line memorizing his alias’ name, address, and birth date and realizing he was going to have to tell Simon and Tod (but not Dash, because Dash would never let him live it down) they were right. Post-intervention, he did blend in a bit more with the crowd of mostly teens and twenty-somethings waiting to get into the Gold Room. Individual outfits varied—he saw ripped jeans and a t-shirt, a velvet suit, a ‘50s-style prom dress worn with a floor-length cape, and something that may or may not have started out life as a pirate costume—but the color black, heavy makeup, and accessorizing that would have thrilled Simon predominated. 

He hadn’t realized just how many people in Eerie went out at night dressed like they wanted to convince other people they spent a lot of time hanging around cemeteries.

Marshall, who _did_ spend a lot of time hanging around cemeteries and therefore mostly dressed for comfort and the ability to run away fast, wondered if he was unusual in not owning a single pair of knee-high, lace-up boots or any clothes made out of PVC.

A bored-looking woman at the door was checking IDs, taking money, and stamping hands.

Dash was being quiet for Dash. Marshall would occasionally feel his eyes on him and turn and grin, only to have Dash respond with the briefest almost-smile and shake of his head before looking away and pretending to be fascinated by something like a nearby sidewalk crack.

For anyone familiar with standard Dash X body language, that was a high compliment. He was starting to get a better feeling about tonight.

And then they got to the front of the line.

Marshall watched as the woman took Dash’s money, gave the barest glance at his ID, and first took his left hand, then dropped the stamp to take his right, and continued to hold them both while she stared for a long moment in confused indecision.

She ran her thumb along the edge of the “+” symbol as if she maybe expected it to smear. 

Marshall went from finding the situation mildly funny to mentally begging her to just give him a stamp already, as Dash’s face clouded.

Instead she looked up at Dash and in a tone that was equal parts amusement and condescension said, “Really.”

Dash jerked his hands away and was about to either stalk off or cause a scene when he caught sight of Marshall mouthing the word “No.”

Someone behind them in line snickered.

Dash sighed and gave the woman his right hand again. She finally made a decision and brought the club stamp down so that it made a parallel line above the permanent "-" mark that was already there.

“They’re cute! Honestly!” she called after him as he retreated inside and Marshall approached.

She took Marshall’s money, looked in the general direction of his ID, and stamped his hand without comment before waving him inside.

Marshall caught up with Dash in the entryway before the coat check. They were far enough in that had to strain to hear over the beat of the music.

“Shut up, Teller,” Dash said.

“I didn’t say anyth—" Marshall began, as other people squeezed past them.

“I said shut up, Teller,” Dash said again. He looked down, face flushed. “Every damned time I deal with someone new at the door. ‘They’re cute’ or ‘They’re unique’ or ‘I wish I could be that brave’ or ‘Don’t you know that’s going to cause problems when you go to find a real job?’”

 _They think you got them done on purpose_ , Marshall decided not to point out. The club seemed to occupy a social space that wasn’t quite Eerie proper, where most people followed the unspoken rule to refrain from publicly commenting on what was weird about anybody else.

Dash slumped against the wall and closed his eyes, looking suddenly exhausted. “This whole fucking thing was a mistake.”

 _This whole fucking thing_ , which meant coming here with Marshall. 

“So do you want to go, or…?”

“I don’t know!” Dash snapped. 

With anybody else, it might be time to say something supportive. Instead he lightly brushed Dash’s stamped hand with his own and said, “We might as well stay. Otherwise, it looks like you’ve just let her change your name for nothing. I mean, do we call you Equals now, or what?” 

He was rewarded when Dash’s expression changed from exhausted to full-on exasperated. “I swear to God, Teller. You’re…”

“I’m what?”

“You! All the time!” Dash said, as if that explained everything. “You know what? Don’t call me anything. In fact, while we’re in here, you don’t know me.”

“Fine,” Marshall said. They were staying then. He pushed past Dash to step further into the club, blinking and taking in the scene as his eyes adjusted to the flickering lights. There was a bar, a very active dance floor surrounded by tables, and a five-piece band playing on the small stage next to the DJ booth.

He came here to dance and he was going to dance.

He took one last glance behind him to where a grey-haired figured was still leaning against the wall.

“Mars,” Dash began. "I..."

“See you later, random complete stranger,” Marshall told him. There was both a challenge and an invitation in those words if Dash wanted to read them.

He headed for the dance floor, and didn’t once look behind him.


	3. Selected Scene: Hour One

Dash caught up with Marshall when he’d finally grown tired of letting Marshall ignore him.

He hadn't expected to be the one to blink first. Then again, he hadn't expected that it would take this long to get finally get Marshall alone. After walking away, he'd danced with at least six different people, then made the rounds of the place talking with several more. It occurred to Dash belatedly that while this was Marshall's first time here, a lot of the regulars were either his classmates or people he'd previously encountered during some battle or another with the forces of weirdness.

And then there were all the people who just found him damned attractive.

Now Eerie’s premiere paranormal investigator was standing in a corner, sipping something that was at least partially Coke, and scanning the room in a way that meant he was taking mental notes to transcribe later.

“Hey,” Dash said, handing him another cup that was also partially Coke, but mostly whiskey.

Marshall took it and gave him a blank look. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“No. You don't. But buying drinks for complete strangers is kind of a tradition in these places. By the way, if you want anything else from the bar tonight, my tab is open under the name Dash. And you are?”

“Well, the name on my driver’s license is Howard, but you can call me Mars, if you want.” 

“That what your friends call you?”

Marshall shrugged. “Friends, enemies, weird people I meet in clubs who buy me drinks.”

Dash raised an eyebrow. “Weird people you meet in clubs?”

Marshall concealed a half smile by raising his cup to his lips and draining it. “I’m very interested in weird, as it turns out.”

“I see,” said Dash. He took a sip from his own drink. “So, you having fun, Mars?”

“I am, actually,” Marshall said, dropping character. “I found out that the bartender thinks the DJ is probably an incubus, but the DJ says I shouldn’t listen to anything she has to say because she’s a compulsive liar. And also involved in an international basilisk smuggling ring, but since that's got large amounts of illicit money changing hands here, I’m guessing you already knew that. There’s a guy who knows about a haunted abandoned roller rink Simon and I haven’t investigated yet. I've got the info to check it out later if you want in. And the couple I was dancing with about twenty minutes ago say they have photographic evidence of the monster living in Lake Eerie, but I think they were just trying to get me to leave with them.” He made a dismissive noise. “Everybody knows the Lake Eerie monster has tentacles, not flippers. Also, the girl with the lunchbox purse over there hitting on Melanie Monroe is a vampire. Or maybe a zombie. Anyway, see how she forgets to breathe when she's not paying attention? And there’s something definitely strange about the band from earlier. I mean, it was like the entire club was the floor at the same time, and did you notice you couldn’t stop dancing until they took a break…?”

“Wow,” Dash said when Marshall finally paused for breath. “You never do stop being you, do you?”

"I don't," Marshall said. He gave Dash a long look. "Would you really want me to?"

“Nah,” Dash said. “As it turns out, I’m very interested in guys who are very interested in weird.”


	4. Selected Scene: Hour Two

Yeah, there was definitely something weird going on with the band. 

The one from earlier was back on stage. Their lead singer—a pale blonde woman who was the only person in this club dressed entirely in white—caressed the microphone as she serenaded them all with something about love and blood and sacrifice. Marshall couldn’t see the entire band from where he was, but the drummer and guitarist both played with their eyes closed, beatific expressions suggesting they were in some sort of trance. Which likely meant they were under the same spell as the rest of the club.

Because, yes, the entire club, save for a few members of the staff, was out on the dance floor again. Whether they were dancing individually or in couples or larger groups, they were also somehow—all of them—moving together as a single organism controlled by the music.

Marshall felt the song flow over and through him as he pulled Dash closer. He was vaguely aware he was sweating under the hot lights, and wondered if shouldn’t feel more uncomfortable. Or more tired. Or more embarrassed, as he leaned down for another kiss.

Somewhere in the middle of this set, he and Dash had progressed into full-on making out on the dance floor in front of god and everybody. Literally, as Marshall had discovered one of the regulars was actually the god of suburban ennui, who liked to meet his local acolytes here for a few drinks on weekends.

Marshall couldn’t seem to bring himself to want to stop.

He was also having trouble explaining why any of this was weird.

“I don’t understand. You want to quit dancing?” Dash asked, as they broke off.

“No,” said Marshall. “That’s kind of the problem. It’s just…” It was very hard to concentrate when their bodies were pressed so close together every move was practically obscene. Especially with Dash nuzzling his neck like that.

“You want to quit dancing with me?” Dash looked up at him smirked. “Because sure, I can leave you alone, Slick, but first you’re gonna have to get your hands off my ass.”

Marshall shook his head. It wasn’t that, either. It was just that while at least half the people they knew were aware there was _something_ going on between Marshall Teller and the weird kid with the hair—and some members of his immediate social circle had a bit more detail than Marshall was strictly comfortable with following the kidnapping and subsequent failed virgin sacrifice incident last summer—he wasn’t sure he was ready for this level of public display.

So he remembered suggesting that they leave the floor and go somewhere more private. He remembered Dash agreeing. Only then they…hadn’t.

He looked around. Everybody else seemed to be happily caught up in the music and/or each other. Maybe it was Simon’s warded wrist cuff that allowed him to notice there was some sort of strange force at work here. Though if that was the case, it wasn’t working very well, given that Marshall wasn’t exactly immune to the effects of whatever this was. Or maybe, once again, he was the only person in the room paying attention to the fact there was something mega weird going on.

“Dash, think. If you wanted to stop and get out of here, could you?” he asked.

Dash laughed. “If I wanted to, sure. Why?”

Marshall thought. "Okay. You know the Evidence Locker?"

"Um, yeah?"

He brought his lips to Dash’s ear and asked, in as close to a seductive whisper as he could manage and still be heard over the music, “Remember Item #3443?”

He pulled back and saw that Dash’s eyes had grown wide. “You mean…are you serious?”

Marshall nodded. “Yeah. All we’ve got to do is stop dancing and make it out that door.”

Neither of them stopped dancing.

Neither of them made a move to leave.

“I should really want to go right now,” Dash observed.

“But you don’t, do you?” asked Marshall.

“I really don’t,” said Dash. “Okay. Yeah, I see the problem. What do you want to do?”

Marshall considered. He wasn’t sure what he _could_ do, to be honest. He tried to bring his hands to his own ears and discovered he didn’t want to. “Can you put your hands over my ears?” he asked Dash. “Maybe if we muffled the sound we could…”

“Immediately let them know we’re onto them when they’ve got control of the whole club?”

“I’m not sure if it’s the entire band we need to worry about, or just the singer,” Marshall said.

“Either way, it still winds up being you versus the whole club,” Dash pointed out. “You’d better have one hell of a plan.”

It would help to have _any_ plan, Marshall realized. 

“Is it worth doing something stupid?” Dash asked him. “Or would it make more sense to just wait it out? I mean I don't like having my free will messed with any more than you do, but right now, the only thing this seems to be doing is making people want to dance. Which most of ‘em came here to do anyway.”

Marshall considered this. Then he considered the length of Dash’s body pressed up against his and how good it would feel to just stay on the floor and keep moving.

“Well, they didn’t play for very long last time,” he conceded.

“They can’t,” Dash said. “Not if the place wants to make any money. As long as this goes on, nobody’s buying anything from the bar.”

Which was such a Dash thing to think about. Still, even the forces of weirdness had to yield to the forces of commerce eventually, Marshall supposed.

“I’ll give it a few more minutes,” he said. “But if they play for much longer or if anybody looks hurt, I reserve the right to do something stupid.” 

“Fair enough,” Dash said, spinning them both around as the tempo picked up. Then, “That offer of yours _is_ still on the table after the music stops, right?”

Marshall brought his lips close to Dash's ear again. “We’ll see," he whispered.


	5. Selected Scene: Hour Three

Dash X was in hell. 

It wasn't just that Marshall had decided he wanted to stay and investigate more after the band left the stage and the club went back to playing compulsion-free music. Expecting Marshall Teller to leave anything paranormal well enough alone was an exercise in frustration. 

It was that after he and Marshall failed to track down any of the band members or anybody who remembered seeing them leave, after they'd decided to get another couple of drinks, sit down, and come up with some sort of strategy, Melanie Monroe and her new friend had asked to join them.

Dash had no strong feelings one way or the other about Melanie. He certainly wasn't jealous, as Simon Holmes had insinuated on more than one occasion. It didn't make any sense to be jealous of someone just because she once used to go out with the person you were now in a semi-relationship with back when they were both all of Simon's age.

No, it didn't matter how she looked now wearing leather pants.

Or whether or not Marshall had noticed.

That fact that Melanie was with the pale girl with the unnaturally red hair and the Special Agent Dale Cooper lunchbox--Dash had forgotten her actual name as soon as he heard it--only made things worse. Marshall was right, he realized. It was subtle and probably something only somebody obsessed with the paranormal would notice if it wasn't pointed out, but there were times when the girl stopped breathing, as if she needed to remind herself to do it and her attention had temporarily lapsed.

The bigger problem was that Lunchbox Girl was still a complete stranger, and Marshall was a lot more wary about letting people he didn't know in on his latest paranormal quest than he'd been back when Dash first met him. Which meant they were no longer even strategizing, but instead finding small, safe things they could all talk about.

Which, for everyone at the table but Dash, seemed to involve dissecting every single nuance of the Corn Critters franchise.

“I’m just saying, it’s established all the way back in _Revenge_ that all corn critters are repelled by butter,” Marshall was saying. “And yet in _Corn Critters 6_ …”

“They’re clearly eating buttered toast in the diner scene before the killing spree starts!” Melanie finished. “Thank you! I’m glad someone else notices these things.”

“And that’s not even getting into the way time works,” Lunchbox Girl said. “I mean, Lucy was supposed to be sixteen in the first movie, and her little brother was just a baby. Ten years have supposedly passed since then according to the opening scene of 6, and yet somehow now the brother’s a teenager and Lucy’s only twenty-two?”

“Yeah!” Marshall said. “Though that’s not near as bad as the fact that their father’s supposed to be dead in the original _Corn Critters_ , but shows up in the fourth without any explanation.”

“Kill me,” Dash muttered. He downed his entire drink, then took Marshall’s without asking. He felt Marshall lightly squeeze his thigh. Really, the only thing preventing him from vaulting over the table and leaving Marshall alone with them to finish the world's most boring conversation was...well, that would mean leaving Marshall alone with them.

“Hey Mars, remember when we watched the fourth one over at Nick’s house?” asked Melanie.

“And Eddie got scared and wouldn’t admit it, but later he had to call his mom to come pick him up because it got dark out?” said Marshall.

Melanie snickered. “I would have felt sorry for him, but he spent the whole time before the movie started teasing Simon about how young he was and how scared he was going to be, and then…”

Marshall shook his head. “Anybody who knows him knows Simon’s fearless." 

"Yeah," said Melanie. "But Eddie always was a clueless-"

Lunchbox Girl suddenly stood up. “I’m going to go get another drink. Anybody want anything?”

“A double shot of the strongest whatever the hell they’ve got,” Dash said. Not that it would help much. It wasn’t that he was incapable of getting drunk, but it was both a gift and a curse that he seemed to have a harder time of it than other people.

“So,” Marshall said to Melanie as soon as Lunchbox Girl was gone. "Are you and her...?"

Melanie shrugged. "I don't know. She seems nice, and she invited me to an afterparty tonight. I figure we'll see how things go."

"Oh," said Marshall. "Hypothetically, would it in any way change your mind about somebody if you found out they were sort of…undead?”

Dash saw a look flash across Melanie's face, one that on her usually meant she had just realized a situation was more dangerous, and therefore a lot more interesting than she had previously given it credit for. “Depends,” she said. “Hypothetically like homicidally undead, or hypothetically just eats gross stuff and has permanently cold hands undead?”

“Um, hypothetically, I’m not sure yet?” said Marshall.

Melanie thought for a moment. “Well, in case of the first, I guess I should ask you if you have anything for protection? If it’s the second…well, it's really going to depend on how she reacts when I explain the whole Devon thing.”

Multiple emotions played across Marshall's face before he grabbed Tod's leather jacket from the seat next to him and rummaged through its pockets until he found the vial of holy water. “If it helps, she doesn't come across as homicidal," he said, as he handed it to her. "At least not indiscriminately so. And she's right about the continuity in Corn Critters. Most of the time, it’s impossible to tell what year any of the movies are even in. And that’s not counting the one in space.”

“Do any of them ever mention a date?” Melanie asked. “I don’t remember.”

“Just once, and they manage to screw it up,” Marshall said. “Most of _Return of the Corn Critters_ is supposed to take place on June 13, 1993, but that would have been a Sunday…”

“So the whole weed-whacker massacre in the bank doesn’t make any sense, because the bank would have been closed!”

"What are we talking about?" asked Lunchbox Girl, sliding back in beside Melanie. She had forgotten his drink, Dash noted.

"The specific issues with _Return of the Corn Critters_ ," said Melanie, putting her arm around the girl's shoulders.

"Oh, you mean like how they clearly did no research on dinosaurs before deciding to put dinosaurs in it?"

"Now that is a whole other problem..." Marshall began.

It was more than Dash could take. 

“Excuse me, I just remembered Teller and I have an elsewhere to be,” he said. He moved sideways, shoving Marshall hard enough that he was forced to stand up to avoid falling out of the booth.

"Hey!" Marshall said. "We were talking!"

Dash gave him a look. "Well, now you're investigating. Like you told me you wanted to do, which was the whole reason we're still here in the first place. And you're going to start at the bar, because I need a drink." He handed Marshall his jacket.

"You know, I think I was having a lot more fun tonight before I met you," Marshall said, shrugging into it. He turned back toward the booth. "Sorry, Melanie," he said, before stalking away.

"Wait, did they just meet?" he heard Lunchbox Girl ask as he stood up.

"No, they're just always like this..." he heard Melanie start to reply as he followed Marshall towards the bar.


	6. Selected Scene: Hour Four

“It wasn’t like it was a bunch of werewolves,” Marshall found himself saying to a guy in a Pitbull Surfers vest. “It was one werewolf one night on Wolf Mountain. And I almost died...”

So far, Marshall had managed to accomplish exactly nothing, except for causing a scene with Dash and somehow accidentally attracting a fan club.

It started when he and Dash had gotten into a fight at the bar that covered several of the standard argument topics on the enumerated list Marshall had started keeping, including:

11\. Dash being rude to Marshall’s friends.  
13\. Dash being rude to Marshall in front of Marshall’s friends.  
57\. Why sleeping with someone did not, except under a very limited set of circumstances, give you the right to tell them what to do.  
3a. The specific ways in which Dash’s life would be improved by a lack of Marshall in it.  
3b. The specific ways in which Marshall’s life would be improved by a lack of Dash in it.  
5\. No, _you_ shut up.

The problem with starting an argument in a place where you already had to shout to be heard was that when you also started shouting for emphasis, it was easy to get louder than either of you intended and end up drawing a crowd.

Including the bouncer, who came over to ask what the problem was, and then gave them both a warning to knock it off and a promise that next time they wouldn’t be so much asked to leave as forcibly ejected before they knew what hit them.

They were sitting next to each other at the bar alternately drinking corn whiskey and quietly having Argument 22 (Whose responsibility it was to tell Simon that Marshall and Dash would no longer be on speaking terms ever again, and why) when a girl wearing what looked like a leather ballgown had approached them to say she was sorry and hadn’t meant to overhear any of the stuff from earlier, but was wondering what exactly a “professional weirdness investigator” was and if it might be the sort of person who could help with the strange noises in her grandmother’s attic. And, oh yeah, how much would that cost?

Fifteen minutes and a lot of fast talk later, Marshall suddenly had Dash for a long-time business partner, a standard schedule of fees, and a crowd around him all wanting to hear about his various encounters with the paranormal.

“So how did you get away from the werewolf?” asked another kid in a purple frock coat and an old Sisters of Mercury t-shirt.

Marshall indicated Dash. “He snuck up behind it and knocked it out.”

The girl with dyed pink hair sitting on Dash’s right sighed so hard Marshall thought she might swoon. “That is _so_ brave,” she said. There was a chorus of general agreement.

“Trust me, he comes off a lot less brave in context,” Marshall said.

“Hey now,” Dash broke in, as someone pressed a drink into his hand. “Let’s not bore the people with context.”

“Still,” the girl with the pink hair said, “he fought a werewolf for you. My boyfriend is too scared to even come to dinner with my parents.”

Marshall refrained from either visibly reacting to the word boyfriend or from pointing out that Dash was a lot braver when it came to werewolves than he was when it came to dealing with Marshall’s parents.

“Wow,” he heard someone behind him say. “Nothing like that ever happens to me. I always thought Eerie was dull.”

That was the problem. In the morning, a whole lot of Marshall’s audience would go back to their daytime lives and standard refusal to believe that anything weird ever happened in Eerie. Oh, sure, they all knew about one or two local legends and had seen a couple of things they couldn’t explain, but were otherwise perfectly content to remain oblivious to the weirdness that surrounded them every single day. 

It was only tonight, in this place, they were in the mood for a good story. Still, if Marshall could convince even a handful of them to pay more attention and be a little more careful, they might…

“Hey, I know you!”

He turned to face the owner of the voice. She was older than Marshall, with heavily-lined eyes, long black fingernails, and black hair that cascaded down past her waist.

He couldn't remember ever meeting her before. “Um, you do?”

“I recognized you when you said Wolf Mountain! You’re the Harvest King! My friend Megan and I made wreaths for you. You probably don’t remember…”

“Oh yeah,” Marshall said. “Yeah, I remember. You looked a little different back then.”

“So did you,” she said. “You were really cute.”

Dash snickered.

“Not that you’re not cute now,” she amended. “That’s not what I meant. Just, you know, cute in a much more mature way.”

“Um, thanks?” he said, not sure how else to respond.

“Hey, does that mean you’re, like, still the Harvest King?” asked a red-haired guy Marshall remembered dancing with at the beginning of the evening. “I thought you all disappeared or moved to Europe at the end of your reign or something.”

“Yeah, I guess,” said Marshall. He hadn’t really thought about it in a while.

“Cool,” said the guy. Then, “Hail to the Harvest King!” he shouted.

From around them, there was a general chorus of “Hail!” and “Huzzah!” even from people nearby who hadn’t been part of the original conversation. It was one of those things that happened just as a crowd was in the mood for something to make noise about. It spread as far as the dance floor and seemed to go on forever, as other people rolled their eyes, and started a counter chorus of "Shut up!" The entire time, the guy pointed at Marshall and mouthed “The King!” while Marshall tried to not run away and hide.

When the noise stopped, Marshall was about to point out that he wasn’t, strictly speaking _the_ King, as that title belonged to a guy who lived on his old paper route, when the woman who had once made him a wreath asked him, “So what did you ever do with that cow they gave you?”

“Um-"

And then he felt a cold hand on his shoulder.

“Eerie has a living Harvest King?” he heard an all-too-familiar voice say. “Interesting.”

He turned around and found himself face-to-face with the woman in white. The one he was supposed to be looking for this whole time, the blonde singer who earlier had the entire club dancing. Onstage, she had appeared conventionally beautiful. Up close, she was as pale as Melanie’s new friend, with eyes a shade of gold Marshall had never seen on a person before, blood red lips that may or may not have owed something to cosmetics, and a smile that was just a little too wide. 

“I'm, uh, not that interesting really,” Marshall said, instinctively trying to back up despite the fact that doing so would require him to vault over the bar.

“Oh, I bet you’re fascinating,” she said. “In fact, I think you should tell me all about yourself.”

Marshall opened his mouth, and felt a sudden stab of pain in his right wrist. The ward on Simon’s cuff had finally kicked in, which Marshall was guessing meant that something a lot more malevolent than the dancing spell was happening here.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said.

“Hey, leave him alone, lady!” Dash said. He was echoed by a chorus of agreement from the crowd.

Marshall was about to tell him to stay out of it, he had this under control, when she turned her gaze on Dash. “Tell me, what business is this of yours?” 

“He’s mine,” Dash said. Then his hand flew to his mouth as if trying, too late, to stop the words from coming out.

It was probably the wrong time and place for Marshall to demand to know what exactly _that_ meant, let alone object.

It seemed to bring the crowd to Dash's side, though. There were general noises of support along with some excited whispering to the effect that they were all about to see some more drama.

“Quiet,” the woman said simply.

It didn't work on the whole club, but the crowd in their immediate area fell silent.

Dash started to move away.

“Stay,” the woman said.

Dash, and a couple of other people who looked like they were getting ready to leave, froze in place.

Shit. They were in trouble. Epic, Godzilla-sized trouble.

She focused on Dash again. “So, what’s your name?”

“He doesn’t have a name,” Marshall said, through gritted teeth. The order to be quiet must have been less dangerous, because the ward was still working against it, but barely. Marshall wondered if that meant he could make a run for it, though first he would need a plan beyond just leaving Dash and everyone else here.

“I don’t,” Dash agreed, and it seemed to be true enough to satisfy the compulsion.

“And his name?” the woman asked Dash, indicating Marshall.

“Marshall Teller.”

Shit.

“What do you want?” Marshall asked her.

She laughed, and it was both the most beautiful and most terrible sound Marshall had ever heard. “You,” she said, moving forward to caress his cheek.

"Yeah, that's not happening," Marshall said, flinching away.

"But the real question is, what do _you_ want? Name it, and it's yours." She grabbed his face and lifted his chin so that he was forced to stare directly into her eyes. "All I'll ask in return is one thing. You only need to come away with me for a single night."

"Not. Happening," Marshall repeated. His wrist felt like it was on fire.

She pursed her lips in disappointment, as she realized this wasn't working.

"You!" she said, suddenly turning away from Marshall and back to Dash. “You say he’s yours. What do you want for him?”

“What?!” Marshall said.

She waved a hand dismissively. “I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to your friend here.”

He froze. Just because Dash was making dubious claims earlier didn't mean any decision of his would actually compel Marshall to do anything. At least, Marshall didn't think so. Still, having an enemy who could force Dash to name the exact price it would take for him to sell out Marshall Teller was the very dictionary definition of not good.

Marshall half expected Dash to answer with some ridiculously large amount of money. Or some ridiculously small one, given that less than thirty minutes ago he'd been shouting that what he really wanted more than anything in the world was to never see or hear from Marshall again. Instead Dash sneered, which seemed to cost him considerable effort, and said, “He's not for sale, lady.”

Which was true enough to satisfy the compulsion.

The woman laughed again and Marshall winced. “Everyone has a price,” she said. “But I think you know that. So, think of your own heart's desire, and then answer me: What is the absolute minimum you'd require in exchange for Marshall Teller?”

“I—“ Dash began, as if the word was being forced out of him.

Someone coughed.

Someone’s throat cleared.

And the girl with the pink hair whispered, “Bitch.”

“Quiet,” the woman in white said again, and everyone fell silent, including Dash.

She’d lost some control of the crowd the longer she focused on Dash, and lost control of Dash when she was focused on the crowd, Marshall realized. Whether it was because she didn’t have the force of the music behind her or for some other reason, she was less powerful now than she'd been onstage. And vulnerable to distraction.

She turned to Dash again. “Now, I’m going to ask you one more time…”

Marshall wished he still had his holy water with him. He wasn't sure it would help here, but it was better than nothing. He started to scan the dance floor for Melanie.

And then he had another idea.

He couldn't shout under the compulsion to be quiet, but the ward did allow him enough leeway to speak a single sentence into the tape recorder from the World O’ Stuff he had in his jacket pocket.

He rewound, cranked the volume on the recorder up past 11 to 13 ½, climbed up on the bar, and hit play. 

He'd rewound a bit too far, he realized when the first noise that came out of the recorder at top volume was the sound of Harley Holmes practicing the tuba. It went on for long enough to cause people to cover their ears and the DJ to stop the music. Which happened just in time for the next sound he'd recorded to play, the first sentence Marshall could think of guaranteed to cause maximum possible chaos with minimum destruction: “Bartender, a round for the subjects of the Harvest King!” 

The chorus of huzzahs and hails to the king began from far outside the woman in white’s circle of influence and rolled inward. The shut ups were less pronounced this time, as even the people who seemed to find the whole thing annoying were mollified by the prospect of free drinks.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dash bolt away.

He felt the pain on his wrist subside as he began to hear noise from the crowd below him.

He looked down. The woman in white gave him a slow nod.

“I was right,” she said. “You _are_ going to be interesting.”

She winked at him as she walked out the door.

Marshall wanted to feel relieved when she was gone.

He looked down again when he heard someone clear their throat to find the bartender was glaring at up at him. “Does His Majesty want to get the hell off my bar?”

“Sorry,” Marshall said. He climbed down, found an empty stool, and rested his head in his hands.

He was aware of people trying to talk to him, but he didn't respond or look up again until he heard Dash by his right shoulder. “Hey, was that my tab you were just excessively generous with?”

“Were you going to pay it anyway?” Marshall asked.

Dash shrugged. "Good point." He was silent for a long moment. "Well, that was almost the worst negotiating position ever. What the hell _was_ all that?"

"I think she was messing with us. Just to see what we would do."

"So the supernatural equivalent of a Marshall Teller science fair project?"

"Yep," Marshall said, suddenly feeling very sorry for every reptile he'd ever owned.

"Think she's coming back?"

"Oh yeah," Marshall said. "Apparently, your actions four years ago are coming back to bite me. The Harvest King thing seems to be a very big deal."

"Oh," said Dash. "Wow, does it suck being you sometimes."

Marshall glared at him.

Just then, Melanie Monroe came over, her friend in tow. “Marshall, what exactly was going on over here?” she asked.

Marshall looked around at the milling crowd, claiming their free drinks and trying to explain to each other what had just happened.

"Weirdness,” he said. 


	7. Selected Scene: Hour Five

Marshall tasted like corn whiskey and black licorice, Dash noted. The latter a result of a few too many rounds of Jägermeister with his loyal subjects before last call. 

That probably also had a lot to do with the way Marshall had Dash pinned up against the wall right now, and was kissing him as though he never intended to come up for air. Dash had no such excuse for the way he was responding just as eagerly. His hands were clenched in Marshall’s hair and his coat had long since fallen on the ground at their feet. As Marshall’s hands moved to Dash’s belt, Dash tried to remember the very many reasons this was a bad idea…

An Eerie Police car bearing the standard “To Protect and Control” slogan slowed down and flashed its lights as it drove by. 

…like, for example, the fact they were on a public sidewalk. Dash imagined the look on Marshall’s face in the morning when he realized exactly what kind of notes on them Sergeant Knight now no doubt had in his extensively detailed files.

“Yeah, we’re not taking this any further tonight, Slick,” he said, as he forced himself to remove Marshall’s hands and push him gently backwards.

“Why not?” Marshall asked, confused.

“Because you’re drunk,” Dash said, re-buttoning his shirt and straightening his clothes. And because it was no doubt going be all Dash’s fault they’d just been caught doing something Marshall would later regret.

The look on Marshall’s face suggested he was about to pout. “So’re you,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, well, you’re drunk to the point your decision-making skills are worse than usual,” Dash said, picking up and shrugging back into his coat. He cursed having the sort of metabolism that allowed him to out-drink almost the entire room and still wind up sober enough to have to be the responsible one. “I don’t want to deal with you complaining I took advantage of you in the morning.”

Marshall scoffed. “I wouldn’t. And you weren’t this worried about taking advantage of me a couple hours ago.”

“I also wasn’t this worried you were going to throw up or pass out on me on a couple hours ago,” Dash pointed out. He put one hand on the small of Marshall’s back and attempted to steer him down the sidewalk. “If you wanted to be taken advantage of, you should have left when I wanted to leave. Or at the very least, taken me up on my other suggestion.”

“What other…you mean, doing it in the bathroom of the club?” Marshall made a face. “Be serious. That place was disgusting. And haunted.”

“Well, then...” Dash began. “Wait, haunted?”

Marshall gave him an annoyed look. “Do you not _ever_ look over your shoulder when you’re looking in the mirror?”

“Why, what would I have…?” Dash started to ask, and then though the better of it. “You know what? Never mind. This is exactly why I can’t take you anywhere.”

The walked in silence for a few moments, until Marshall spoke again. “So, if we’re not…doing stuff tonight, why are we going to your place, again?”

Dash groaned. “I told you. I couldn’t just leave you there after closing time.”

“Yeah, but…” Marshall started.

“And I’m not taking you back to your house in your condition,” Dash said. Marshall was in no shape to sneak back into his room, and Dash wasn’t in any mood to find out what Marilyn and Edgar Teller’s reaction would be to having their teenage son come home so obviously intoxicated.

“Yeah, but…”

“And as entertaining as it might be to let you wander the streets of Eerie by yourself all night, I am not going to explain that decision to Simon if you don’t come home in the morning. Why, was there someone else you were hoping to go home with?”

“No.”

“So, we’re going to my place and you’ll have,” Dash tried to remember what you were supposed to feed to drunk people and if it matched anything he actually had in his kitchen. “I don’t know, some toast or something, then take some aspirin, drink a big glass of water, and sleep it off. Then, in the morning—if you’re not too hungover, and after you’ve had a shower—we can revisit the subject of ‘doing stuff.’” 

“But there’s never any hot water over at your place,” Marshall said in a voice that was half a whine. “And you don’t have a real bed. Or any coffee.”

“I don’t drink coffee,” Dash reminded him.

“I do. Otherwise I spend the morning feeling like hell, and you make fun of me.”

“So I’m supposed to spend my hard-earned money on something I don’t even drink, plus a machine to make the thing I don’t even drink, just so you can be a little more comfortable in the morning when you deign to spend the night?”

Marshall sighed. “I guess not.”

“I’m sorry neither the world nor the contents of my kitchen revolve around you, Teller. Just be grateful I’m not charging you for the toast and water.” Dash gestured up ahead. “We turn right at this light.”

As they turned the corner and passed the municipal parking garage, he saw Marshall’s unsteady gaze suddenly snap into focus on something in the shadows inside. Dash tried to make out what had caught his attention, as Marshall stood staring for a long moment before reaching inside his jacket and slowly removing and holding up his pocket book of banishing rituals. 

“Your move,” Marshall called out, only barely slurring the words.

The shadows flickered, as if something within them had suddenly decided slinking away was the better part of valor. 

Marshall nodded, satisfied, and said, “Okay, let’s go.”

“That wasn’t…her, was it?” Dash asked, when they’d passed the garage.

“No, that was something else,” Marshall said. “Don’t worry about it. It probably won’t bother you if you don’t bother it. Or try to park in space 38.”

Dash started to ask, and again thought the better of it.

That was the thing about Marshall Teller. He noticed things other people didn’t and attracted weirdness like a magnet, and Dash was never sure which was cause and which was effect. He was also completely incapable of taking his own advice and not bothering things that shouldn’t be bothered. Hell, Marshall had uncovered more strange people and events in one single night at the Gold Room than Dash had in weeks of going there on his own. And that wasn’t even counting what had happened toward the end of the evening.

Marshall was studying the warded leather cuff on his wrist. “I need to get this back to Simon first thing in the morning,” he said. “And then we need to figure out how we can buy or make more of them.”

“No,” said Dash. “You’re going to keep it on until we can buy or make more of them. You’re the one with the target on his back right now.”

“But Simon’s my best friend, and everyone knows that. He could be in danger if…”

“You really think he’s going to be in less danger if you put yourself in a position where he has to rescue you? Again? You’re keeping it on.”

Marshall glared at him. “Don’t tell me what to do, Dash.”

Dash glared back. “Don’t be stupid, and I won’t have to, Mars.”

There was another long moment of silence as they kept walking.

Then, “Dash?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m yours?”

Dash sighed inwardly. He was wondering when this was going to come up. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “You don’t hold me responsible for every little thing I might have said under of the influence of…that, and I won’t hold you responsible for the stuff you said under the influence of all the shots afterward.”

“What?” Marshall looked confused. “I didn’t say anything I need to worry about.”

Dash shrugged. “That you remember.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“If you say so.”

“Dash…”

Dash just looked at him.

“Fine,” Marshall said, “whatever.” 

They lapsed into silence again. 

“You can’t have me, you know,” Marshall said, after a few moments.

“I’ve already had you,” Dash pointed out, and was rewarded when Marshall’s face flushed.

“That wasn’t what I meant,” said Marshall. “And it doesn’t make me _yours_.”

“I know,” Dash said.

“Then why did you say…?”

“I don’t know!” Dash threw up his hands in exasperation. “I don’t know why I said it. Okay? I thought we were done talking about this.”

“No,” said Marshall. “I’m not. You can’t just claim me.”

“I know,” Dash said. “You’re not mine. Got it.”

“And you can’t just sell me out to the highest bidder whenever you want,” Marshall continued.

“I know,” Dash said again.

“I would never do that to you.”

“I didn’t _do_ anything!” Dash practically shouted. “So why are you…?”

“Except that you would have,” Marshall said. “Except for the part where this whole thing is your fault to begin with. Except that…”

“Yeah,” Dash said, closing his eyes. “Okay. You’re right.”

Marshall blinked. “What?”

“You’re right. You said it yourself. This whole thing is because of something I did four years ago, and I don’t blame you that you hate me for it. It’s not the only thing I’ve done to you that you _should_ hate me for, either. And you’ll probably hate me for things I’ll do in the future I haven’t even thought of yet. So, you’re right. You win. It’s my fault. Happy now?”

“No,” Marshall said, managing to sound sulky. “I don’t—“

Dash made a small, strangled noise of frustration in the general direction of the heavens. “Then what do you want from me, Teller? What the fuck do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” said Marshall. He stopped walking. When he turned toward Dash, he didn’t quite manage to meet his eyes. “We’re not good for each other, are we?”

“No,” Dash said. “We’re not.” 

“I’m kind of drunk right now,” Marshall said, stating the obvious.

“I noticed,” Dash replied.

“So I want…” Marshall bit his lower lip, and turned away. “I want to go to sleep and think about this in the morning.”

“Okay,” Dash said. Then, as Marshall started to walk away, “Right.”

“Right what?” Marshall asked.

“We turn right again at this corner, remember?” Dash said.

In a few more steps, they were at the bottom of the stairs leading to Dash’s small apartment above Krelborn’s Gifts and Flowers. Marshall looked up at Dash’s door, then down at his own feet, then up at the door again.

“You need some help getting up the stairs?” Dash asked.

“No, I—“ Marshall started. Then he sighed. “Yes.”

Dash kept one arm around Marshall’s waist as they slowly ascended the stairs. When they reached the top, he took out his keys, and let them in to the apartment.

Dash flicked on the lights and watched Marshall blink and take in the surroundings as his eyes adjusted. The place hadn’t changed much since the last time Marshall had been here. It was a tiny efficiency apartment, not glamorous, but the first address Dash had (mostly) legally paid for. His name—or one of his pseudonyms, at any rate—was on the lease and everything.

The living room décor consisted of a single, thin mattress on the floor covered with a pile of pillows and blankets inherited from the Teller family linen closet. (“You’d be doing me a favor, Dash,” Marshall’s mom had said. “I need to make some room in here anyway.”) Next to it was the base for Dash’s cordless phone, a small reading lamp, and the duffel bag that contained all of Dash’s clean clothes, plus any emergency supplies he’d need in the event he had to make a run for it.

On the other side of the room was the television, a pile of Dash’s dirty clothes, and next to it, a small shelf made out of concrete blocks and old boards. The shelf held a framed photograph of Dash, Marshall, and Simon—another gift from Marshall’s parents Dash hadn’t quite known how to turn down—a few borrowed occult books, and some shards of broken crystal that had survived the explosion at the Loyal Order of Corn lodge almost four years ago. Most of the remaining bits of alien technology, especially those that looked like they might someday be brought back to working order, were at the Tellers, locked up in Marshall and Simon’s Evidence Locker. They were probably safer there, Dash knew. Still, he’d wanted something here that felt like it truly belonged to him.

“You’ve failed to do wonders with the place,” Marshall noted, then made an unsteady turn toward the kitchen.

Dash watched as Marshall’s eyes took in the sink full of every dish Dash owned—all of which were dirty, and all of which had the same origin as the bedding and the photograph—and then moved to the kitchen counter. Which held Dash’s small microwave, still-haunted toaster, and brand new Things, Inc. Brew-o-Rama 2000 coffee maker.

Marshall turned to Dash, eyes wide. “Is there actual coffee that goes with that?”

Dash nodded. “Top right cabinet. Some of that fancy stuff Mr. Radford started stocking. I couldn’t remember which kind you were waxing all poetic about to Simon about last week, so I got all of ‘em. You can throw out the ones you don’t like. Also, filters, which I had to learn about. You have an annoyingly complicated addiction, Marshall Teller.”

Marshall gaped at him. “But you just said…I don’t understand you.”

Dash shrugged. “That’s okay. I don’t understand me, either. Now: food, water, bed. You can over-caffeinate and go back to hating me in the morning.”

“I don’t hate you,” Marshall explained, as Dash guided him to the mattress and sat him down. “I just hate that I love you, is all.”

Dash went into the kitchen and busied himself looking for something to wash some dishes with. “You’re drunk, is all,” he said, not looking in Marshall’s direction.


	8. Afterward

“Yes, Simon, I promise. He’s fine,” Dash said, as he took the phone into the bathroom to avoid waking Marshall, who had finally passed out in the other room and was currently hogging Dash’s entire mattress. “He’s just asleep right now, and I don’t want to wake him up.”

Dash sat on the edge of the claw-foot tub and wondered if he should enquire as to what exactly _Simon_ was doing up at this hour. He vaguely remembered Marshall having a much earlier bedtime at thirteen. Simon, on the other hand, seemed to keep more a erratic schedule. Dash knew the kid had to sleep at some point, but there were stretches when he seemed to run for entire days on nothing but black cows and sheer enthusiasm.

“Tell you what, I’ll call you as soon as he’s awake and sober, and you can come over here and see for yourself that he’s still alive…No, I did not say he isn’t sober now, Boy Detective. You inferred that, and I will neither confirm nor deny…I’ll let him tell you that when you get here, there’s some stuff that went down tonight he’s going to want to talk to you about…Yeah, bringing him a change of clothes wouldn’t be a bad idea…”

Marshall had stopped leaving extra clothes at Dash’s six or seven final arguments ago, and Dash didn’t have much that would fit him.

“Speaking of clothes, how’d the makeover go?” Dash asked Simon. “You what?...Your hair?...Oh, this oughta be interesting…No, if it’s that stuff from the mall, it isn’t permanent…”

He stretched and yawned and almost missed Simon’s next question.

“Sorry, what?...Yeah, piercing your ear would be a lot more permanent…I don’t know, I wouldn’t let somebody stab holes through my flesh, but that’s me…What, are you asking for my permission?…What am I, your mom?...Yeah…Yeah, I think talking to Mrs. Teller first before you do anything would be a good idea…Yeah, okay…G’night, Simon.”

He hung up the phone and moved to shut off the bathroom light. As he did, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. He very carefully looked over his reflection’s right shoulder, then its left shoulder.

There was nothing there.

He started to turn away again, then turned back and studied the entire background reflected in the mirror, and how well it matched the actual background behind him, for several long moments.

Nothing out of the ordinary continued to appear.

“Goddammit, Teller,” he muttered. He shut off the light, and stepped back into the main room.

Marshall rolled over and opened his eyes.

“Simon?” he asked sleepily, indicating the phone in Dash’s hand.

“Yeah, that was Simon,” Dash confirmed.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” Dash said. “He’s okay. He’s coming over tomorrow, and you guys can strategize or whatever. And you can see his new look.”

“You okay?”

“Me? I’m fine,” Dash said. “Go back to sleep.”

Marshall rolled over again and soon began breathing steadily. 

Dash sank to the floor against the wall next to his shelves. As he did, he absentmindedly picked up one of the crystal shards. It gave a small, sad glow as he rolled it around in his hand.

The light woke Marshall, who rolled over to face him again. “You coming to bed?” he asked.

Dash toyed with the shard a bit longer before the glow faded completely and he put it back down. “Yeah,” he said, at last. “Scoot over.”

Marshall did, and Dash climbed under the blankets beside him. They lay beside each other for several minutes, not touching, until Marshall took one of Dash's hands in his and brought it to his lips, planting a light kiss in the middle of the '+' symbol. 

Dash shuddered. He wished there was any way he could explain to Marshall exactly how that felt. The way it felt like a claim. The way it felt like a promise.

"Sorry," Marshall whispered. "Should I not...?"

"No, you can do that," Dash said. "I've told you. You can always do that. But right now, I think we should go to sleep."

"Okay," Marshall said. He yawned. "It'll all seem better in the morning."

"No, it won't," said Dash. "We'll just get through it anyway."

It didn't. And they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: The haunted roller rink


End file.
